


Sister Don't Let Go

by Rainfallen



Series: Wayfaring [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, House Stark feelings, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainfallen/pseuds/Rainfallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold spring night after the long winter has passed, a singer spins the tale of Azor Ahai in a Barrowton tavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sister Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> **  
>  _ADWD Spoilers_   
>  **
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> Written for lilyofdiamonds in the 6th [got-exchange](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com/) to fill the prompt: _(Jon survived the assassination, R+L=J) Jon Snow has been revealed to be Jon Targaryen, but in Arya's mind, he will never be anything but brother._
> 
> Title from Mumford and Sons' lovely "Sister."

"A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother  
Did ever love so dearly"  
\-- _Antony and Cleopatra_ , II.ii.865-66  
  
  
  
Emma had just settled herself on the bench nearest the fire and dried her mead-drenched hands on her apron when the first notes of the hand-harp pierced through the cacophony of voices in the tavern. She spotted him in an instant, a young, too-sinewy thing in leather and a woolen cloak that looked more suited to a cool summer night in the Riverlands than a sharply chill spring evening in Barrowton. Emma had seen his ilk before and knew how it would go for him. He’d make his rounds of the taverns around town, brave the road north to Cerwyn or mayhaps even Winterfell itself if he were feeling ambitious, and then he’d set his steps back South, to warmer nights and warmer girls all eager to hear of his time spent in the wild untamed North amidst the savages and cannibals and free folk. She chuckled into her mug of mulled wine at the thought.  
  
"Lend me your ear, friends, Lords,  _Ladies_ ," the singer called out, with a tip of his head and a wink in the direction of one of the younger barmaids at the last honorific. "I have for you this eve a tale near and dear to many of your hearts, but perhaps it is not quite the version you know: the tale of the Dragon prince who refused the Iron Throne, the savior of the Long Night, the reborn Azor Ahai."  
  
The roar of voices in the main hall of the tavern slowly dropped to a soft murmur as the singer began to spin his story, and Emma let her eyes drift close as she listened. Young, soft Southroner as he may be, he had a pretty enough voice and a prettier way of turning a phrase. She rather hoped this one would get to finish before the inevitable uproar began.  
  
The bright chime of the harp strings under the singer's fingers softened to something warm and melodic as he spoke, and his voice fell into a lilting cadence that tripped and flowed along with the melody harmoniously. "We sit here in the dewy days of spring, warm sun of a day and a healthy chill to the air at night, but we all remember the long cold, the days of darkness when a man could freeze and starve and be counted lucky that his death was so clean, so untainted." A few murmurs rippled across the hall in agreement, and the singer hummed quietly and plucked at his strings until they died down.  
  
"I've heard many a tale of the fires of the Wall," he continued. "They say that on a night with no snow, men two hundred leagues away could see the glow from the dragon fire and the Red Priestess's walls of flame, those walls that she first erected the night that Jon Snow died and Jon Targaryen was born."  
  
Emma opened her eyes and cast a glance around until her gaze fell on a young woman sitting at one of the long tables. She was long and narrow as a sapling, tucked against the far wall in the midst of her ever-present entourage of sworn swords, her long grey cloak a tell-tale identifier for anyone with eyes to see—but the fool singer might as well have been blind for all that he noticed her. Emma tutted quietly; he wouldn't last a moon's turn in any Lord's court with such observational skills as those. For the moment, the younger Lady of Stark sat motionless with her chin in her hands and her eyes narrowed at the singer, and remained, like every other soul in the hall, utterly silent. Emma bit back a smile and settled more comfortably on her seat. So much for the singer finishing his tale, she was sure, but perhaps something even more entertaining was yet to come.  
  
The singer had not paused while she ruminated, but tripped along the account she had by now heard a hundred different ways. "As the stalwart young Lord Commander lay in the snow," he was saying, "drenched in the bright red of his lifesblood, the Priestess fell into an ecstatic spasm. She shuddered and wailed as her demon god ravaged her mind with visions of the true reborn Azor Ahai, and every man in sight of her saw it as well, a burning bright vision of a man who would draw from the flames of his pyre the reforged Lightbringer and lead the realms of men to triumph over the monsters of ice, and salvation from the long night."  
  
The singer's fingers pulled harshly at the strings of his harp, the tone deep and resonant now, no hint of the earlier playfulness. "And so she lay him on the pyre, set his mortal body aflame with sparks shot from her very hands, and sang to the sky as the dead man rose again, quick as you or I. And when he rose, oh brothers mine, he was a Stark byblow no longer, but by the Priestess's own revelation a Targaryen, a dragon born of salt and flame, the last of Prince Rhaegar's line with the fury of the great wyrms burning in his heart and in the sword clenched in his fist."  
  
On the bench near the wall, the Lady Stark let out a most undignified snort. One of her knights, whose name escaped Emma—the dark-haired one with shoulders crafted by the Smith himself and such a face as to set even Septas a-swooning— set a large hand between her shoulder blades. At the touch, the lines of her body seemed to relax a hair, but her annoyance was writ plain across her entire form. Emma wagered it would last another five minutes and felt she was being generous.  
  
"When he emerged from the flames, hair crisped away and skin pink as a babe, he threw back his head and let fly a great cry that pierced the ears and hearts of every man before him. They say the power of his voice shook the very foundation of the great Wall, that it filled the skies from the uncharted North down to the Red Keep itself, that his wild dragon brothers across the Narrow Sea heard its call and flew with their mistress to his aid, sparking a true Dance of Dragons, the likes of which the Targaryens of old might never have dreamed.  
  
"But despite the bloody burning battles that raged between the ancient Others and the dragons and men of the realm, the risen Lord was truer to his duty than his men had been to him—and was a harder man to rule than the Dragon queen had ever imagined. Lord Targaryen held his precious Wall when his aunt flew north with her dragons to their doom, and held it, triumphant, even when the Lord of the Others descended upon it alone. And at the Wall he remained when the armies marched the fawn queen south to her throne. He might've had that throne, but claimed his duty to the realm held him to guard the North, not sit in a throne. Some even say he might have been within his rights to press for the seat of Winterfell over his cousin, but I have heard tell that the ladies of Stark had turned their bannermen against his cause and denied him entrance to Winterfell's halls, for he was no brother of theirs any longer – "  
  
"Seven hells man, would you shut up?" the lady in question snarled from the end of the table.  
  
The singer, startled, snapped a string. As the harsh trill of it faded, he scowled, eyes tracking over the long features of her face, sharp but undeniably feminine, and then sliding down over the swell of her breasts under worn leather, to the sword across her knees, and lingering on the slightly dingy cloak. "If – ah -  _m’lady_  is displeased with–" he began, distain dripping from the honorific.  
  
Emma had to hold back a belly laugh.  _Oh lad,_  she thought with begrudging affection.  _Oh lad, now you've done it._  
  
"Oh yes  _m'lord_ , m'lady  _is_  displeased," the Lady Stark affirmed mockingly, her voice carrying through the hall effortlessly and cutting smoothly over top of the man's words. " _M'lady_  wonders how any singer worth his salt managed to make it this far north telling nothing but lies.  _M'lady_ reminds you that Jon is every bit as much a Stark as a Targaryen – more, even, because he was raised by Starks and taught by Starks and loved by Starks. M'lady can tell you that the 'ladies of Stark' would never turn their brother away, and m'lady suggests you bugger right off and stop spinning tales about better men than you'll ever be."  
  
She was over the table and on her feet now, twirling her short sword by the hilt in a way that made Emma nervous no matter how many times she had seen it.  
  
It made the singer nervous, too.  
  
His eyes darted around, taking in the scene before him in a way he had not deigned to do before. Emma saw now what he saw: the careless authority the girl wore around her shoulders like armor, the unconsciously deferential way her men and shield maidens leaned toward her, the respect and hints of affection in the faces of even those folks clearly not amongst her companions.  
  
The singer balanced his small harp gingerly on the trestle table before him and inclined his head briefly. "It is just a tale. I meant no disrespect of course, but only to point out that the Lord Targaryen is their cousin, not their brother, and I have certainly heard tell that—"  
  
Ser Shoulders choked out a guffaw into his tankard of ale, his broad back shaking under the tight stretch of his leather. Across from him, a short lithe woman with the figure of a black bear emblazoned on her surcoat slammed her mug down on the table and wiped a sleeve across her mouth before speaking. "See here, lad," she called out, raucous and sardonic. "Mayhaps you're behind on your gossip, so let me set you straight. The Lord Commander doesn't answer to 'Targaryen,' and the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell here doesn't take kindly to strangers telling her who she may or mayn't call 'brother.'"  
  
Arya tapped the point of her blade into the wood of the table at her hip to punctuate the Lyanna Mormont's proclamation and crossed her arms over her chest. She gave the singer a smile that was all bared teeth and no mirth, and with that his jig was up. As he gaped silently at the two women, all offence and bruised pride, Emma stood to siphon off a tankard of warm mulled wine for the lad to take with him to the stables. He'd get no rest in the main hall tonight, that was certain, but he'd done a pretty enough job at spinning his tale, considering the place and the audience. The least she could do was give him something to warm his belly against the night's chill until daybreak arrived to make travelling safer.  
  
The Lady Mormont made an impatient clucking sound with her tongue. "Well? You heard the Lady. She said for you to bugger off, so if I were you I'd _bugger off."_  
  
Emma bustled between them and pressed the tankard into his hand. "Off to the stables with you, lad," she urged, her voice low under the sounds of laughter filling the hall at the Lady Mormont's words. Sensing his irreparable defeat, he went, with the merry tones of the regular patrons and Lady Stark's swords alike following him out.  
  
Perhaps she should make a habit of warning those few singers who wandered through these parts against singing tales of local legends. The North was very protective of its own. _  
  
 _Ah, I shan't,_  _Emma admitted to herself as she poured another ale for Wyl the stonemason. _I do enjoy seeing them get all flustered_.  
  
  


  
\---

  
  
  
  
When the moon had arched high and begun to fade into the lightening sky and the locals and travelers alike had largely filtered from the main hall of the tavern to retire to their homes or their rooms, Arya slipped out the heavy doors and into the sharp cold air of the early morning. She sat beneath the open sky, tugged her cloak around her shoulders, and let her eyes drop closed, mapping in her mind the path for the coming day and the days after, for herself and the sworn swords that accompanied her.  
  
She expected the doors to creak open long before they did, and so only tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement upon hearing the footsteps behind her at last. When Gendry lowered his tall frame to sit beside her on the wide steps, she leaned gratefully into his warmth.  
  
"Off for the Rills in the morning?" he asked after a span of easy silence.  
  
"Mmm," she assented, eyes still closed. "We should reach Lord Ryswell's hold in four days, maybe five, so if you could see that we have enough—"  
  
"Done. We were almost out of hard bread, so I asked Emma to wrap up a couple sacks of foodstuff from the larder," Gendry said. "And paid her from your purse, since you left it laying on the bench when you left."  
  
"Ruffian," she said affectionately, pleased.  
  
They fell again into silence as the sounds of conversation completely faded from the hall behind them, until at last Gendry spoke again. "Do you believe all that you said about Jon?" he asked quietly. "When you first found out, you were...." He let his words trail off and when Arya looked up she could see his jaw flexing anxiously in the pale pearly light.  
  
Arya thought of six wolf pups in the snow, of a long narrow blade like a sewing needle, of breathless bouts of Come-Into-My-Castle, of long missives scratched messily onto parchment, of mussed hair and crushing hugs and the deep, satisfied  _knowing_  that she felt in Nymeria's very bones whenever she scented Ghost or Jon.  
  
She breathed in and out purposefully, twice, thrice, and then from the distant hills came a long howl, deep and resonant. From even farther away came answering calls from the direwolf's little cousins, a chorus of acknowledgement and deference.  
  
"Show-off," Gendry muttered balefully.  
  
Arya nudged her head against his shoulder to hide her grin. As the last faraway howls faded, she flashed a bright smile to northern sky.  
  
"Jon's a wolf," she told him. "One of us. He will always be our brother."

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://sergendry.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


End file.
